However, it was not the size of the place or the number of persons dwelling there that kept her from feeling at home with her new assignment. Instead, it was the nature of the place itself. Yes, several hundred people worked there, some just one level apart or around a corner or a few dozen feet across one of the few tunnels that connected the subterranean branches of the Darwin Research Facility. Physically, they were a tight-knit group.
In reality, however, the various departments might as well be separated by entire continents. The further one traveled into the depths of Darwin, the more secretive things became.
The cafeteria sat on the surface level, which also included a large reception area, a media center, conference rooms, and a small exercise gym. Tinted glass windows afforded a view of the Fort Irwin grounds or, rather, the isolated patch of desert that served as Darwin's part of the base. Not much to see out those windows other than a rocky horizon overlooking miles of flat, arid land. A few smaller buildings that served maintenance or security purposes surrounded the primary structure, and the entire complex was, in turn, surrounded by a big nasty fence, of course.
A second floor — known as Surface 2—housed communications facilities, photography labs, and even a rooftop greenhouse used for low-level experiments, although she worried that too much of that research involved growing plants with narcotic properties.
These two upper floors and the surrounding external buildings formed a sort of cap above Pylon A and Pylon B as those two parallel structures descended into madness below.
Reference libraries and supercomputers, biology labs and medical facilities occupied areas on sublevels one, two, and three. If your clearances worked, you could descend further and find microbiology research, a Biological Warfare Theories and Studies Center, a limited but still-frightening chemical warfare test range, chambers dedicated to propulsion and aeronautics studies, and a theoretical physics department that, thanks to the events at Red Rock three months before in Pennsylvania, gave Liz the creeps.
But the fun stuff really started on sublevel six, home to the containment facilities. She saw that place as something akin to a zoo combined with a prison for the criminally insane. Indeed the feral, cannibalistic children found, captured, and removed from Red Rock were among the more sedate residents in those high-tech cells.
Sublevel seven was a larger, older area that included some big, tall-ceiling rooms used by Archangel for tactical training as well as oversized storage facilities, one of which currently housed the extraterrestrial craft Major Gant and his team had pulled from the Everglades the previous autumn.
At the very bottom of it all was sublevel eight, which, like the surface levels, connected the two underground Pylons. This was an older, larger section with stone walls carved out of caverns and big rooms that felt more like caves. While dumping areas for toxic waste and all manner of vile byproducts from the floors above made this deepest of levels a place rarely visited, there was one room down there that demanded attention.
They called it the Pit. Liz had visited it only twice since arriving on station. And it was home to one last containment cell, this one a lot bigger and a lot more specialized.
She shuddered just thinking about It. But before thoughts of Darwin's most unusual resident could take hold of her imagination, Corporal Sammy Sanchez approached her table, carrying a sheet of paper. The feral children of Dr. Ronald Briggs were not the only occupants of Red Rock that had switched their address to Darwin.
Sanchez had helped Liz unravel the secrets at that dungeon in Pennsylvania and then confront a rogue general. Of course, Sanchez had also shot his previous commanding officer in the back, but that had come in the line of duty.
In any case, the young Hispanic man demonstrated courage and intelligence. She hoped to swing him a promotion in rank to match his new, expanded duties as her assistant at Darwin. Certainly, he was officer material and he had earned as much. But that would have to wait until she became more established in her job.
"Excuse me, Colonel."
She motioned to the empty chair across from her and popped the last morsel of bun and burger into her mouth.
The corporal wore the army's grey, universal camouflage pattern BDUs. She had her own set hanging in a closet somewhere; she preferred a dress uniform and had recently traded in her olive drab one for the new blue.
"Look at us in our fancy clothes," she said. "We're really moving up in the world."
"Ma'am?"
Liz realized she had spoken her thought aloud.
I really have to learn to stop doing that.
"Nothing. What did you find out?"
He looked left and then glanced right, well aware that everyone in the cafeteria, from the old lady in the lab coat to the tall thin soldier with his wrist handcuffed to a suitcase, held high-level clearance, but not all clearances are created equal.
Reacting to his discomfort, she leaned forward and whispered, "It's okay, Sammy. You were looking into shipping manifests, not the Manhattan Project."
"Okay, ah, Colonel. I found about two dozen manifests for ships leaving the United States and listing Tioga Island as one of their destinations. Most of the stuff I found were things like aviation fuel, foodstuffs, furniture, and building supplies. But one shipment really stood out."
Her eyes perked up, the result of either the calorie explosion from the burger, the caffeine from the coffee, or the tone of Sanchez's voice, which suggested he had found a valuable nugget of information.
"Go ahead. I'm listening."
"Mining equipment."
Liz failed to see the big reveal.
He explained, "It's a tiny little isle, right? The only thing there other than palm trees and sand is a volcano. It doesn't make any sense to do mining in a volcano."
Liz waited for a moment, allowing him three whole seconds to enjoy what he apparently saw as an important clue.
Then she said, "Except for sulfur miners. They've heard of it, although they probably wish they hadn't."
"Sulfur miners?" The expression of self-satisfaction disappeared.
"Yep, the poor bastards go right into a volcano and pull the stuff out. That is, if the fumes or the heat don't kill them. Their mortality rate can be a little high. I hear the ones in Java work for about ten bucks a day. Isn't the third world great?"
"Oh. I didn't, well, I mean, I didn't know that. Sorry to bother you."
"Wait a sec, Sammy." She touched his shoulder and stopped him from leaving. "Did you track down the company that shipped the mining equipment?"
"I did. It was about a year ago when they sent the stuff. Some land movers, trucks, drilling equipment, and lots of explosives. The stuff was bought by a company who they thought managed the island."
"And who owns the island?"
"As far as I can tell, a whole bunch of management companies that all point to a group of Hollywood big shots. But there are a lot of hurdles, middlemen, and lawyers to jump before we get a clue as to who actually is in charge."
"Nice," Thunder said, and took the piece of paper from his hand. It was a faxed copy of the shipping manifest for the mining equipment. Her eyes scanned the lines but really paid no attention to the words on the page. "A private little getaway for the rich and the power brokers. And what do we get, Corporal? Just another high-tech dungeon. You ever wonder if you and I are in the wrong line of work?"
He looked at her with an expression that was one part blank and one part nervous.
"It's okay," she said. "I meant to say that aloud."
"Yes, Colonel. I'll keep looking. But what happens now?"
She let the paper drop to the tabletop and leaned back in the molded plastic chair that eerily reminded her of the ones she had sat in decades ago in elementary school.